


Only the Good Stuff

by WritingToAvenge



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingToAvenge/pseuds/WritingToAvenge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A warm summer night finds Steve unable to concentrate on his drawing. That is, until Bucky comes home and offers him some inspiration. </p><p>This prequel is intended to be just a taste of a much longer story coming soon from me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Good Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> This short is intended to be a prequel to the Captain America: The First Avenger movie. Any characters are not my own and belong to Marvel.

Only the Good Stuff

 

The unbalanced weight of the pencil is familiar in Steve's hand. His fingers are idle though as he tips the pencil back and forth across the blank pad of paper in front of him. The heavy eraser end drags across the page, marking the previously spotless whiteness with a dark smear of left over lead. A hint of dull pink from the eraser itself accompanies this smudge and Steve looks down at it with numb defeat ravaged across his face.

Steve knows he should be drawing, should be practicing. His heart is just not in it today; he cannot fathom placing what is in his mind onto paper, as he is so often capable of doing. For what is in his mind is far beyond what his small pencil is capable of accomplishing. It is of a war across a wide ocean, of a world set on fire, of a time filled with horror and sorrow. Without a doubt, Steve does not wish to draw such things. Perhaps that is why he cares so little as the eraser drags across the page once more, leaving yet another blotched line of pink and gray in its wake.

With a small huff of agitation Steve finally pushes the pad of paper off of his lap and down to the other couch cushion. The moth ridden mildew that has lingered on the cushions since long before the couch came into Steve and Bucky's possession wafts up and mixes with the summer warmth. The small apartment they share together is quiet beyond these minuscule sounds though, just the distant hum of the city outside the open windows offers anything else. For a moment Steve just lets his head fall back, sinking into the depths of the back cushion as he is not tall enough to have his head reach the edge.

There is a loud shout from outside, of children playing out in the street, and then a mother calling for her son to come in. The sun is low in the sky, Steve observes as he looks out the window, thinking that it will soon be time for dinner as well. He rolls his eyes towards the kitchen that is just a few footsteps away. Bucky found the apartment a few years back, just after Steve's mother had passed and they had started up at art school together. It is small, with a kitchen to one side, their beds to the other, the couch on the back wall, and a dinning table in the middle of the mess. Yes, it is small with just one window and a clothes line hanging from one end of the kitchen across to the couch, but it is theirs and it is all they have ever needed.

It will look bigger once Bucky is gone though, Steve thinks to himself. His hand twitches towards the abandoned drawing pad at his side. He does not reach for the paper and pencil though, for the thought of Bucky coincides with the thoughts of war and destruction that still haunts his mind. He could turn on the busted up radio they managed to find, play with it for the better part of an hour just to fill the void around him with some noise. In the end though he knows he will find a station telling him the same thing he has heard a hundred times before.

The world is at war and all Steve can think when his nimble hands try to work the radio dials is that he is not going to be a part of it. He still remembers when the war first broke out and they had heard during one of their art classes that the United States was entering the war that was already ravaging half of Europe. A twinge of a smile pulls at Steve's lips though as he recalls how he made Bucky take him to a gym just so he could put some muscles on himself before he dragged his friend to the recruitment center.

Steve had received his 4F rejection. Bucky had received his draft notice a few weeks later. And that is why Steve sits idle on the couch now thinking that he will soon hear that his best friend will go off to fight in the war he should be fighting as well.

A heat surges in Steve's chest and his breath becomes labored for a moment. Others might think it is just another one of his asthma attacks, Steve knows it is just his passions getting the better of him. He simply becomes so angry at the very prospect that everyone else is able to serve their country, to fight with purpose, and he is left here to melt into their mildew smelling couch.

Steve is about to rise from the couch, suddenly disgusted by the prospect of becoming one with it, when the front door opens. Though there is still a slight scowl on Steve's face, there is a tentative smile on Bucky's as he walks through the door. Without having to question the look on Steve's face, Bucky simply takes his military issued hat off his head and asks, “I've told you to get out, staying cooped up in this place is only going to drive you mad.”

“I have stuff to do here.”

Bucky's eyes fall upon the pad of paper with its sad little eraser marks. Yet he keeps a smile on his face as he sits down on the other end of the couch. The hard pressed lines of his uniform crease as his body eases toward comfort. Lightly he changes the subject by saying, “I've heard the notices for shipment will be arriving soon.”

“Already?” Steve asks with slight disbelief in his voice. Everything about the war has been happening so quickly and yet Steve feels like he is left behind. It is a feeling too many have made him feel when he knows he is more than capable of keeping up. “Basic training just ended though.”

“It's the way of things now, Stevie.”

“I suppose so.” As an after thought, Steve then adds, “We don't have much in the way of dinner.”

Bucky's face lights towards a smile again as hand lands a hand on Steve's bony knee and he responds, “I think I can scrounge something up. I'm going to have to be resourceful overseas, I should start doing that here.”

Bucky rises and takes the few steps towards the kitchen. As he begin to open cupboards and draws forth a canned good to inspect, Steve replies, “We have been resourceful around here long enough, no need for practice.”

“All the same,” Bucky turns to look at Steve and nods towards the abandoned pad of paper beside him, “practice is important.”

“I have nothing to draw.”

“What, are you tired of sketching the same dead plant over and over again?”

Bucky snickers slightly at his own joke as he rummages around in the drawer of utensils until he finds the small, sharp can opener blade. Metal rips and squeaks across metal as Bucky rams the sharp tip into the top of the can and slowly begins to work it open.

Steve looks towards the plant in question and swiftly responds, “I forgot about it when you went to boot camp.”

“So should I expect it to be in the same state when I return?”

A hushed silence falls over them. Both readily talk about the war, about being a part of it or wanting to be a part of it, but talking about the consequences of being a part of something so deadly is often overlooked. Both know that there is every chance that Bucky might not return to their small apartment in Brooklyn. Both never want to talk about it though. Talking about the valor and bravery of war is far more appealing.

That is why Bucky replaces his question with an action. With the can of soup now open, Bucky quickly lights the stove, places a pot over the flame, dumps the soup contents in, and then swings around to Steve. With equal swiftness in his actions, Bucky pulls the identification tags up from under his uniform shirt and tosses them toward Steve. Though he fumbles slightly, Steve still catches the two plates of metal attached to a thin metal chain before he looks up at Bucky with a silent question arched upon on his narrow face.

Bucky merely shrugs and answers the unasked, saying “Draw those.”

Though Steve's eyebrows raise slightly, he remains silent as he takes up the paper and pencil again, setting it upon his lap once more. The metal tags jingle slightly as Steve places them at the top of the page, the metal chain dangling off the corner to brush slightly against his leg. As the soup begins to simmer the soft sound of long pencil strokes fills the apartment. The simple, yet difficult nature of the sketch keeps Steve entirely occupied. The sound of Bucky pulling two bowls from the cupboard is distant in his ears, and it is not just because of his poor hearing. He becomes so entranced with shading in the letters of Bucky's name on the tags that he barely realizes that dinner is ready until he hears Bucky saying his name.

Steve's head snaps upward, jarring him away from the drawing in front of him. Bucky only smirks slightly and nods towards the table where dinner is now set. With one last glance towards the half finished sketch, Steve puts it aside in favor of eating their humble dinner. Yet, even as he brings the soup to his lips, he still finds his eyes wandering towards the abandoned pad and pencil.

“My face not pretty enough to look at?” Bucky asks lightly as he catches Steve looking over at his work again.

“Well, your conversation is lacking,” Steve retorts as he finally looks towards Bucky, “and I do prefer that.”

“Yet you only have eyes for two plates of metal.”

Steve's eyes fall towards his incomplete drawing again. Slowly he shrugs. “It's interesting.”

Bucky does not inquire further as to Steve's meaning. Instead they simple continue to eat, talking between slurps of soup and chatting about nothing of merit. As soon as the bowls are clean though Steve is wandering back to the couch and taking up his drawing again. The light outside begins to fade and Bucky turns on a single lamp for Steve, knowing that it is enough. The weight of the day, however, falls heavy on Bucky's shoulders and he finds himself crawling into bed soon after the streets outside become hushed and covered in darkness. By the light of the lamp Steve continues to work, the sound of his pencil roaming across the paper, following a steady rhythm that matches the slight snores coming from Bucky as he sleeps.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

  
A mighty yawn erupts from Bucky as he blinks his sleep crusted eyes awake. The lamp he had left on for Steve last night is now turned off and the light of a new morning seeps in through the single window instead. Stretching out his lean body, Bucky looks towards Steve's bed and sees that it is empty. Though not uncommon, the act is also not entirely common and Bucky quickly rises with some concern etched on his face.

The answer to his concern rests upon the table in the center of the apartment. A single sheet of torn away sketch paper holds the scratch markings Steve calls his handwriting. The message, scrawled between eraser smudges, tells Bucky that Steve took up his suggestion from the night before and decided to get out this morning. Bucky cannot help but laugh slightly to himself as he reads that Steve even plans on seeing a movie in the afternoon. It is not disbelief that makes Bucky laugh, it is the very nature of Steve that makes Bucky laugh because he knows Steve only goes to the movies these days to see the reels about the war.

Steve is going to do what he wants to do, Bucky thinks to himself as he lets the note drop back down to the table, there is no stopping him when he sets his mind to something. It seems that Steve really set his mind to something last night though, Bucky observes as he sees the pad of paper on the table as well, below where the letter had previously been. On it is a completed drawing of his identification tags, ones that have been dropped into a small pile right beside the pad. Bucky's lips quirk upward as he picks up the pad of paper and brushes a thumb across the paper that he is sure had been so warm under the care of Steve's hands, though is now cool to the touch. It is a simple drawing, a mirror image of the tags really. At least that is what Bucky thinks as he picks up the real metal ones and with just a single hand puts them over his head to fall from his neck once again.

The dark shading enunciates each letter and number that has been stamped into the real tags. The curved outline is soft, even lighter than the rest of the piece, as if the edges of the tags are dissipating into space. As if already feeling judging eyes on him, Bucky looks around. He sees only the familiarity of the empty apartment though and that is all he needs to borrow a bit of the courage Steve always possesses. Carefully Bucky tears along the edge of the paper, freeing it from the pad. He knows that Steve will not mind him taking the drawing, not when so many that saw far more time and effort found their way to the floor in a crumpled heap of dissatisfaction.

Placing the drawing back on the table, Bucky slowly folds it in half and then half again until it is small enough to fit in his billfold. That is exactly where it goes, since Bucky would rather have it there, with him as he goes to the front-line, than abandoned here at home. A sharp pain nicks at his heart at this thought, as it is far too close to the very same idea that he is leaving Steve here at home. As Bucky dresses, donning his private's uniform, he tries to push this thought from his mind. He has a surprise for Steve after all, one that should leave them both happy despite all that may come in the future.

Excitement begins to replace the pain as Bucky's hand drifts towards the pocket that holds his billfold. Resting beside the drawing are tickets to the “World Exposition of Tomorrow” and Bucky already has two great girls ready to go with him and Steve tonight. He knows where Steve will be this afternoon now too; though he knows he will already have a time dragging Steve away from the screen showing the war he cannot fight in. It is Bucky's hope though to fill his friend with promises of something far better to see.

Gingerly Bucky smooths out the front of his uniform before he heads out the door, diligently locking it behind him, as Steve is rarely able to remember to do such things. Setting off at a brisk pace, Bucky wonders what awaits him at the army headquarters this morning. He was not lying to Steve last night when he heard that shipment notices were starting to circulate. What he had not told Steve last night though was that he has already been approached by one of his senior officers about rising to the rank of Sergeant before deployment.

A warm breeze barrels down the noisy Brooklyn street and Bucky lifts his head up towards it. He is going to miss the neighborhood, the sounds and the smells of the city being alive. He tries not to think of that too much though, not when he still wants a spring in his step when he goes to find Steve this afternoon with the tickets to the Expo ready in his hand. Despite wanting to turn his mind towards this, Bucky still has one lingering thought that causes him to shake his head and have a smile graces his face. If he does get promoted to Sergeant he will be issued new identification tags, the ones around his neck will be taken away to be reused. He will always have the drawing though and Bucky knows that is what truly bring the smile to his face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thegirlwhowaitedtoavenge.tumblr.com/).


End file.
